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wcrobi 's review for:
In the Dream House
by Carmen Maria Machado
All of my favorite books from this year have seemingly dropped out of thin air, landed in my lap, and changed my life significantly. Whether it be from me scouring footnotes of an entirely different book for an anchor to hold on to (see: The Crucified God), an off-chance book pick-up from an open library at a Bloomington coffee shop (see: Ocean Sea), or the recommendation of my new principal (see: Invisible Man), books just seem to appear in my life that fundamentally change who I am and how I see the world.
This is one of those books.
Machado speaks to desire in a way that is so… viscerally relatable. Not because we share many common markers of identity (me, a cishet man and Machado, a queer woman), but because — and here I pause. I’m not entirely sure what makes Machado’s testimony of struggling with desire so compelling. Perhaps it stems from the similarities in religious upbringing. Perhaps it arose out of the unique anxieties I have about how I walk in this world, how I talk to others, and how I am perceived. Perhaps it is because I have heard so many amazing pieces of lived wisdom from so many people in my life who point to desire as something that can be acted upon, not only managed; a flower that can blossom and not only a bomb ready to explode.
For much of my adolescent and early adult life my world was hemmed by a fear of desire — this book shows a world that is constrained by a fear of *not being desired*; two different things but, nevertheless, I was awestruck regardless.
I rarely read books that make me gasp, turn away, and shudder as much as this book has. Another book that comes to mind is Conner Habib’s “Hawk Mountain,” another wonderful and disturbing story about abuse and desire wrapped together until they are almost indistinguishable in their shared chaos.
So, go read it. It will challenge you, and maybe it will make you shudder the way I did while I was reading. What a blessing — that books like this exist for readers (such as myself) to see themselves even minutely in the lives of a stranger. I am deeply grateful.
This is one of those books.
Machado speaks to desire in a way that is so… viscerally relatable. Not because we share many common markers of identity (me, a cishet man and Machado, a queer woman), but because — and here I pause. I’m not entirely sure what makes Machado’s testimony of struggling with desire so compelling. Perhaps it stems from the similarities in religious upbringing. Perhaps it arose out of the unique anxieties I have about how I walk in this world, how I talk to others, and how I am perceived. Perhaps it is because I have heard so many amazing pieces of lived wisdom from so many people in my life who point to desire as something that can be acted upon, not only managed; a flower that can blossom and not only a bomb ready to explode.
For much of my adolescent and early adult life my world was hemmed by a fear of desire — this book shows a world that is constrained by a fear of *not being desired*; two different things but, nevertheless, I was awestruck regardless.
I rarely read books that make me gasp, turn away, and shudder as much as this book has. Another book that comes to mind is Conner Habib’s “Hawk Mountain,” another wonderful and disturbing story about abuse and desire wrapped together until they are almost indistinguishable in their shared chaos.
So, go read it. It will challenge you, and maybe it will make you shudder the way I did while I was reading. What a blessing — that books like this exist for readers (such as myself) to see themselves even minutely in the lives of a stranger. I am deeply grateful.